


Who’ll always be there, as frightened as you

by Handfulofdust



Series: Being Alive [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Love Confessions, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 00:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handfulofdust/pseuds/Handfulofdust
Summary: Olivia gets some really bad news, which then compounds itself.





	Who’ll always be there, as frightened as you

**Author's Note:**

> I took a LOT of liberties with a LOT of things here so please forgive me for all of it.

“Benson,” she answers the phone, not cognizant of what she's doing, really. Thousands of calls like this and they're usually Chief Dodds not understanding how to text.

“Lieutenant - you don't know me, but,” she hears a huff on the other end of the line. “I need to inform you that Rafael has been hurt. If you'd like to see him he's at Bellevue.”

“Barba?” seeps out of her mouth, robbing her of the ability to breathe. She hasn't seen him in months. Not since he resigned from the DAs office in protest after the new DA refused to prosecute a prominent film producer for sexual assault.

Fifty counts of sexual assault.

They'd exchanged texts, he'd occasionally send Noah gifts from whatever city he was speaking at. He'd said he was back in New York a few months ago.

They acted like they'd get around to going to dinner. Never did.

“Yes,” the man on the phone breaks her reverie, a slam back into reality. “If you don't want to see him I understand. I just thought you should know.”

Not want to see him? Why would she not want to see him? The only reason she can think of is - no.

“Is he -” her stomach drops, refusing to acknowledge what may be possible. “Is he okay?”

“He's in surgery.”

“I'll be right there.”

She hangs up the phone. The only thing stopping her from running down the stairs and into traffic to hail a cab is that she's technically the boss. And the boss can’t go running off to visit her former best friend in the hospital.

Though she's the boss and she absolutely can.

She shakes her head, walks out to the bullpen. She must've done a terrible job of preparing her face because Fin immediately asks her what's wrong.

“Barba - he's uh,” she swallows, struggling to find the words to say what she doesn't actually know. “I got a call he's at Bellevue. In surgery.”

“I'll drive,” Fin says immediately.

“No,” she stops him as he's grabbing the keys to the cruiser. “One of us has to be here in case someone comes in.”

“Well you ain't drivin’ Liv. Not like this. Carisi’ll take ya.” He motions to the detective. If her face looks anything like his, well, no wonder Fin caught on so quickly.

She's also known the man for twenty years.

“That’s not any different than me driving,” she protests, half-heartedly. “Carisi is his friend too. We're all his friends.”

“It's different and we all know it.”

“I'd like to go Lieu.”

She was hoping Carisi’s incessant jabbering would be a distraction. They don't really speak. It's… unsettling.

This whole thing is unsettling.

There’s a call for a multiple gunshot victim over the radio. They both hear it.

Carisi turns down the volume. As far as she's concerned they're no longer on duty. They're always on duty.

* * *

  
“Barba,” she tells the intake nurse when they walk in. “Rafael Barba. I need to see him.”

“Are either of you relatives?”

“No.”

“Then I can't confirm he is here nor let you see him.”

Fire alarms are going off in her head. She's two seconds away from flashing her badge, pretending this is official police business.

“Listen, lady,” Dominick starts beside her, reaching into his pocket for his own badge.

“Detective Carisi?” A voice behind them interjects. They both turn around.

“Doc!” He answers, slapping his arm around the man’s back as a manner of greeting. “It’s a good thing you’re here, I was about to lay down some law on folks.”

Sonny conspicuously gestures to the intake nurse who rolls her eyes and makes some comment about pushy people trying to make her violate HIPAA under her breath.

“Always a pleasure Sonny,” the man notes, not an ounce of disdain dripping from the smile. It’s a comment Rafa would have made - quite sarcastically. Rafa being the reason she’s here.

“You must be the famous Lieutenant Benson,” he’s still smiling, but there’s something missing from him when he greets her. The warmth isn’t at all genuine. “I’m sorry to call you out of the blue like that but I thought you should know.”

Ah, this was the man from the other end of the phone. The mysterious figure she didn’t know. “Yes,” she responds, holding out a hand, “And you are?”

She’s being rude. She doesn’t give a shit. He’s got no right to act like this, like she wouldn’t want to be here or that she’s somehow done something wrong. They don’t even know each other.

“Ben Friedman, I’m uh,” he stops for a second, as if searching for the right term to explain who he is and what he’s doing here and why. “Rafael's partner.”

It’s lucky she’s already in a bit of a panic attack because it allows her to not voice her reaction out loud.

Partner? He’d never told her he was dating anyone. You’d think that would be something to mention in the 1400 texts about various cities hosting True Crime conventions. Somewhere along his tour of adoring fans he complained about constantly

[ _Someone threw panties at me, Liv. Panties! I’m trying to talk about prosecutorial misconduct here. It’s very inappropriate]_

She didn’t disagree that it was inappropriate, but still gently ribbed him about it. She definitely didn’t try to find picture evidence in the #Besotted4Barba and #BarbaBabes hashtags she has no idea exist.

She had, however, told him it was the trade-off to these things. The way he had resigned so publicly, so brashly. He’d publicly accused the sitting DA of conspiracy. He’d privately agonized over the entire thing, what the morally just decision was, but he showed none of it on the evening news.

They’d argued, discussed, gotten in fights about what his best course of action was, and in the end he’d chosen the option she never could. It changed things. She didn’t begrudge him for it. She thought she had told him that.

She had also thought there was a thin glimmer of something. The slightest hope that he’d actually want her back this time. That they’d finally moved past jealousy over things that could not be because of professional complications.

She hated to lose him as a partner, but she understood his decision. Somewhere deep down she had thought it would also be the opportunity he needed to actually ask the question she had hoped he really wanted to. The question she was just as afraid to ask herself.

Instead, the invites had dwindled as his speaking engagements had increased. The texts had declined as her response time had stretched.

Instead she’d lost her best friend and had to be called by this - man. This - partner of his. Ben?

Ben who she didn’t even know existed because he couldn’t be bothered to tell her. Ben who Carisi calls Doc like they’ve been best buds for months.

Ben, who got the call that should have always been her responsibility.

She sucks it up, pretends not to be hurt and shocked and disappointed and morose. Pretends not to feel the gold band against her fingers as she shakes Ben’s hand.

Because it doesn't matter. Not now. That's probably what he wanted to have dinner about. To tell her he'd finally found it, fallen in love.

And she'd been too busy to care, to notice, to acknowledge she wasn't mad at him for walking away. She was jealous of him for being able to move on. To do something else.

She's happy for him…

“Right,” she nods, pasting on a thin smile of acknowledgment. “Is he still in surgery.”

“Still waiting,” he winces, motioning they sit. “He refused to let me call his mother so it's been an ordeal. I'm sure he would have refused to let me call you if he knew I did it.”

He's right. Rafael would never want her to see him hurt. As anything less than perfection.

But maybe it's something more than that. Maybe she really shouldn't be here at all.

She attempts to push herself off the chair she's sitting in.

“I can go if -”

“No,” Dr. Ben interrupts, shaking his head. “It's good you're here. You're good for him.”

He still hates her though. She can tell. She did something. She must have. It doesn’t matter now.

“What happened, Doc?” Carisi asks from the other side of Friedman.

“He insisted on going to meet a client without security. Luckily Manny knows how he is and followed him,” he laughs bitterly.

She knows the feeling, because of course he had. Of course he tried to slip his bodyguard in spite of the legion of adoring fans and myriad criminals he had run afoul of. Quite publicly.

The film producer the DA refused to prosecute had friends in Mossad. More rather, friends formerly of Mossad that he’d put on the payroll to frighten accusers, their families and anyone who had tried to pursue charges.

Everyone knew this. It was a part of the reason the DA had not wanted to prosecute. For safety.

The other reason Reston Tyler had refused to prosecute Walter Grant for 50 counts of sexual assault (the 50 Rafa thought they could prove), was because he’d been given a whole cache of money not to.

Rafa’s resignation had prompted the mayor to appoint a special prosecutor to look into what had to be unfounded allegations. She knew they were true. Rafa didn't believe anything that was untrue.

It was fitting the special prosecutor was the DA who had retired and started this whole mess. That it had taken him months to find enough evidence to press charges recently. Jack McCoy had finally pressed charges against Reston Tyler this morning. Charges related to professional misconduct, bribery, and conspiracy.

Exactly what he had been accused of.

She had been waiting on Rafa’s statement to come out when she got the call. She may have secretly been hoping it was him on the other line.

Ben places a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. She hadn't realized she'd been shaking. She hadn't realized she'd zoned out so thoroughly.

“Manny’s talking to the police now,” he squares her gaze. “I don’t know much else. I’ve been trying to flash around my medical degree to get more information, but being a trauma therapist doesn’t exactly help with the NYPD.”

“I’ll find ‘em,” Carisi responds, rising from his seat. “It’ll give me something to do. You let me know when he’s out?”

They nod in his direction as he darts to the cadre of uniforms on the other end of the floor. They must've missed those on the way in. She silently thanks the intake nurse for doing her job, but doesn’t tell her. She’s tired.

How could he do this to himself? To Noah, to his friends. To his partner.

To her.

She falls against the back of her chair. Wills herself not to think about what’s wrong, what could be going wrong in that OR.

“So you’ve met Carisi before?” she asks by way of making small talk, of taking herself out of this situation. Of hoping her best friend is okay so she can yell at him for being so stupid.

Ben nods yes by way of an answer, fiddling with his hands, “he dropped by the opening party for the foundation. He is exactly as described.”

_The foundation._ Of course. The other half of the reason Rafa had gained a large following of devotees. It was set up to help victims of sexual assault find closure - through the legal system and outside of the legal system. The co-founder was some other hotshot Harvard grad named - Ben.

“Yeah, Carisi is special,” she nods, tries not to close her eyes in an attempt to dull the pain. “Did you and Rafa,” she stops herself. The nickname suddenly seems too special, too intimate, too much. “Did you and Rafael meet at Harvard?”

He smirks, “No, I was an expert witness for one of his Brooklyn cases. He only listened to me because I went to Harvard Med. He claims I closed an impossible case for him, but you’ve seen him in court. The only person who closes his cases is him.”

She suspects it’s the one where he successfully proved rape of sex workers. He’s mentioned it several times before. She doesn’t want to talk about how much she misses him. Every goddamn day. He did the right thing, but she doesn’t like having to explain her hunches to the new guy. She doesn’t like questioning whether they can win. When she used to know the victim would get at least something out of it - being believed by such a competent team, having such a dedicated fighter on his or her side.

He’s helping more people this way. She knows it. She understands.

She hates it. He was supposed to be her partner. They were supposed to be squabbling until 85.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “It’s too bad -”

Too bad the people of New York County fucked up and elected an incompetent jackass after McCoy finally retired? Too bad the only way to fix it was to set his career on fire.

Too bad she lost him in the process?

“He’s a good lawyer.” she says instead of lamenting how she’ll probably never see him in a courtroom again.

Ben nods, fidgets slightly. “How’s your son? I missed today’s drawing in all of the drama.”

“Noah’s good. His… drawing?”

He laughs, “Rafael insists on showing me every new drawing with increasing frequency. As far as he’s concerned Noah is the next Picasso.”

She really doesn’t know how to respond to that. She always thought those sort of annoyed him, but he tolerated them because Noah was a child. She didn’t think he actually liked them.

Or would show them to his boyfriend. Maybe this is the reason he doesn’t like her that much?

“Thanks, I think?”

“You’re welcome,” he responds with a smile. This time it’s genuine. Noah isn’t the reason, not really. It's that Noah makes Rafa happy.

She wishes she still did. She wishes she still could.  

She texts Lucy that she had to go to the hospital for a friend and asks if she can keep an eye on Noah until she can get away. She responds immediately that Sergeant Tutuola had contacted her. She’s happy to, but she’d be happier to bring Noah to visit when Mr. Barba is out of surgery.

She wishes she had that kind of hope.

“Dr. Friedman?” a man in blue scrubs and a surgical cap greets them.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Barba asked that I apprise you of his condition.”

She doesn't stop the deep breath she releases. Especially because she didn't know she was holding it until it was gone.

He asked. He can speak. He’s okay enough to speak. The great bear she didn’t realize was sitting over her chest is lifted. Replaced with something else, an ache she doesn’t know how to name.

Ben nods, but then the doctor notices her, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I have his permission to - “

“She’s family,” Ben interrupts with a hand up in the air. “And if you don't tell her I will later.”

She suddenly understands why he and Rafa are friends - more than friends.

The surgeon nods, “He’s lucky. It looks like they were aiming for his heart but didn’t know at all what they were doing.”

Not Mossad then, she thinks humorlessly _._

“They caught the edge of his lung somehow, the knife was very long.” He continues, almost nonchalantly. She suspects it’s his experience with such things, but it makes her stomach churn. He nods his head in the direction of the uniforms Carisi went to talk to. “I turned it over to the squadron of cops over there.”

“It was still... inside him?” Ben asks.

“Yes. The man who fended off the attacker knew what he was doing. It sealed the wound. Kept him from bleeding out.”

“Will he be -” She falters. Saying it out loud makes it real. Ben gives her a sad look so she swallows. She can’t cry in front of her former best friend’s current - lover. “Will he be okay?”

The surgeon now gives her the pitying look. “He’ll need some rehab to get back up to fighting shape but he’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“Thank you Doctor Wu.” Friedman nods. She must’ve missed the point where they exchanged names. She hopes it was before she got there. She can’t be sure. “Can we see him?”

Dr. Wu smiles and motions to the recovery room behind him. “Go right in.”

She’s not sure she really wants to.

* * *

He’s upright at least. He looks a bit worse for wear but otherwise he’s normal. For someone who was stabbed in the chest a few hours ago he looks positively radiant.

He’s tied to a monitor. A drip is attached to him. He does a double take when he sees her but doesn’t say anything out loud.

He opens his mouth, probably to say something about getting him a snack or a cell phone, but Ben starts before he does.

“We've talked about you visiting people without security,” he pulls a tablet from a section at the front of his bed, flipping through several screens. It must be his medical chart. She’s not sure he’s supposed to be looking at that, but she’s not sure she cares.

“I’m fine,” Rafa whines, rolling his eyes. He visibly ignores the IV line he's hooked up to.

Ben looks up from the chart. “You were stabbed”

“Grazed,” Rafa counters.

“The blade _grazed_ a lung,” he stares him down. “You almost bled out. You would have bled out if it wasn't for Manny.”

Rafa’s strategy to prove his point is to discredit the witness.

“Is that your professional medical opinion as a therapist, _Doctor Friedman?”_

“Yes.” Friedman raises one eyebrow, then gestures to the tablet. “It’s also what the chart says.”

Checkmate. She would think anyway. He tries a different approach.

“I think that's a HIPAA violation. You accessed private medical information.”

It’s clear Ben has been dealing with him for years, because he doesn’t even begin to squirm. He just shrugs his shoulders and says, “Okay.”

Rafael seems confused by this, like he was hoping to have to defend himself a bit longer. He’s right on the second count.

“You can't sue me if you're dead, though.”

She can tell that one lands. Quite well actually, because Rafa’s eyes bug slightly and his nostrils flare. She’s expecting some legal argument about his estate or defamation, but it seems he doesn’t enjoy facing his own mortality.

She certainly isn’t comfortable with any of this. That chart probably shows exactly how close the knife got to his internal organ - just how much it _grazed_ his lung _._

Rafa does a reasonable approximation of folding his arms over his chest and taunts back at Ben, “Your bedside manner needs work.”

“Luckily for all of us you'll live. For now.”

Ben means it. Genuinely and sarcastically. Somehow the expression he’s giving - how he’s pissed and grateful and angry and joyous all that the same time - it’s exactly how she feels. It’s like looking at a mirror only to find it’s broken.

Only to find the pieces have sliced open your own chest.

“Your vote of confidence is, as always, overwhelming.” Rafa sighs and leans back. Then he squares her eyes. “Do I have the police scanner to thank for your presence?”

She squeezes her eyes shut to stop the tears from falling. He doesn’t want her here after all. She has no business watching any of this, being here for anything.

If he wants her to go away he’s going to have to tell her that.

She releases a breath slowly through her nose, then opens her eyes. “Dr. Friedman actually.”  
His mouth is a straight line as he glares at his partner. “I did meet my match with Ben, didn’t I?”

Yes, she thinks. Even though it was supposed to be me.

“Speaking of,” Ben murmurs nonchalantly, interrupting her thoughts. “I think you two need to talk some things over. I'll go get some ice. See if Sonny has any information on the investigation.”

Before she can protest he’s out the door and down the hallway. She’s not sure what confirmation of a match has to do with him getting ice. Nor is she sure what she’s supposed to do with him alone, but she’s grateful for it.

She thinks it’s supposed to be a trap, but she’s gotten out of traps before.

“Hi,” he smiles, finally, really, genuinely. It takes her breath away even though he's caught the business end of a blade.

“Hi,” she smiles back. At least attempts to.

“How are you doing?” he asks. Like the last thing he wants to discuss is his current situation, his own mortality.

Tough.

“You almost gave me a heart attack.”

She's not even exaggerating.

He seems … surprised at that. Almost like he's surprised she would care. Her beautiful, well, no. She's nothing and no one to him. Not anymore.

“I'm sorry,” he furrows a brow. “I've been properly remonstrated by several doctors.”

“You can't do that Rafa,” she pulls back the whine, swallows again. She tries in vain to tamp down the sob bubbling at her throat. The sob that’s been bubbling since she got that phone call. “Grant’s people are trying to hurt you, to silence you, to…” she can tell she’s being histrionic. She’s not capable of less.  
“Rafa - this is why you resigned.”

“No,” he hisses, whether in pain or anger she can't quite tell. “I resigned because Reston Tyler is a criminal. And that isn't slander because we don't have an audience. Even though it's true.”

It is true. More true than he probably realizes.

“I know,” she huffs, because what they should do about Tyler has been argument several times. “We’ve been over this.”

“Exactly. So why are you here?”

Because Ben called, because you almost died, because I thought we were friends and friends care when friends die. Because -

_Because I love you that’s why._

It flares at the back of her chest, attempts to climb up her throat and fly out of her lips. Instead she forces it back, attempting to hide in the back of her chest.

It’s fitting that it feels like heartburn. Especially because he certainly doesn’t feel the same way. Especially when he throws it back in her face. “You of all people can't tell me to stop fighting for victims when you insert yourself into active hostage situations.”

He's right. She knows he’s right, but he's supposed to be the responsible one. They're both supposed to be the responsible one.

It doesn't stop the bile from gathering at the back of her throat. It doesn’t stop her from feeling the remnants of her broken admission as she voices what she's just now realizing. As she faces her worst fear. Definitely Ben’s.

Maybe even his.  

“You can't help victims if you're dead.”

Blunt, but true. Effective. It gets her point across.

He closes his eyes and breathes slowly through his nose. She's managed a blow but it wasn't a knockout.

“Liv, if Grant's people are doing this to me, in full view of all the press that's following his case,” he leads, making his argument with searing clarity. “What do you think they're doing to his victims?”

A different person would gasp, but he's right. Really, she should have known that would be his argument. It certainly would have been hers in the same situation.

“You think he's actually getting them killed?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

He considers the thought, pursing his lips.

“Certainly threatening to. I’m sure he’s also using this as an example. Liv,” he sighs, pulling his free thumb up to his forehead. He’s tired. Full of pain meds and probably a cracked rib and she’s yelling at him for not taking care of himself.

Yelling at him because he means more to her than she ever allowed herself to acknowledge, really. Yelling because she almost lost him. She has lost him.

She needs to suck it up. Be a friend. They can figure out how to be friends again, even if his, well, even if Ben doesn’t like her.

“I know you don't agree with my methods, Lieutenant,” he continues, the edge coming back. The anger bubbling under the surface. Lieutenant is one step below Olivia. A word he used to use in jest. Now it’s a jab. “but can we for today just - “

She holds up a hand, shakes her head. She’s done with this. Done fighting when it actually hurts this much.

“Just,” she chokes, willing him to meet her eyes. “Promise me you'll take your bodyguard next time?”

He looks up, finally stops staring at his nails and the hospital gown and meets her halfway. His eyes are bloodshot, glassy, rimmed with unshed things that he doesn’t need to say.

Because if he doesn’t say them she can hope. She can talk herself into believing she doesn’t have to kill the thing clambering against her ribs.

“Okay,” he agrees simply, a smile at the back of his throat she knows he doesn’t quite feel.

They’ve reached a truce, finally. Blessedly. Maybe there is hope after all. At least, hope of fixing what’s broken, more than finding everything she lost. She can put some things back together, paste the parts into new items.

She finds she wants him to take her into his arms, to hold her against his chest, but he's the one who's hurt. He's the one she should be comforting because he almost -

If he hadn't -

But he had, and he isn't hers to moon over. It isn't her right to cry over a man who she can't get around to having dinner with. She can't sob into his chest.

She won't allow herself to want a married man. She's done that before.

This time the pain feels somehow sharper, deeper. Less of an ache and more of a stab to the heart. Where she suspects they were aiming for.

Maybe they got hers instead.

He must sense some of what she's feeling, she hopes not all. Because he furrows his brows and pastes a half smile.

“You can cry if you need,” he offers as if he would shrug if he could. “it's just me.”

The urge to lay herself across him as if she's wailing at his funeral pyre strikes her as darkly comic. Considering that's for widows and they're barely even friends.

Just him. Just her best friend whose sense of justice outweighs his self preservation.

She's sitting across from him, not sure how she came to sit or where she got the chair. Her hands are holding his. At least the one not attached to the saline drip and monitor.

She decides to address the elephant, the partner, the psychiatrist, the Ben who is down the hall.

“So now that I'm done yelling I wanted to ask,” she sighs, screwing up the courage. “Why couldn't you tell me you fell in love?”

His eyes widen. He drops her hand. The monitor notes an uptick in his heart rate.

Good. He should feel a bit bad for trying to hide it. For not telling her.

She isn't mad about him falling in love. She's mad he didn't bother to let her know, to invite her.

Even though she probably would rather watch a funeral or paint dry.

“Liv - I didn't know how to tell you.”

“It's fine,” she lies, heart bleeding in her chest, forces a smile on her face, “but honestly the next time you're dying you call me,” she orders. Then, because the will to fix things overtakes her in spite of her broken, bloody heart. She tacks on a hasty - “please. Don't make your boyfriend do it. He's too nice for this."

She can feel the admission drowning, beating against the new flow of blood from her wound.

It still refuses to die. Maybe that makes it worse.

He stares at her, blinks. Silence permeates the room. After a solid minute he finds his voice.

“My what?”

“Fine,” she sighs, realizing he probably has some problem with the term. Ben is more than that. “Your partner, Doctor Disgusted.”

She refuses to address the ring on Friedman’s finger. Rafa is going to have to tell her that one. If he doesn’t confirm it she doesn’t have to try and kill her feelings again.

His brow is furrowed. He's glaring at her, mouth a set line. If he's mad she found out she's not going to take it. Not from him.

She grabs his hand again, changes her tack. Tries to pretend she's happy for him. Because she is, she's just mad.

Disappointed. Mourning something she couldn't be bothered to fulfill.

She forces a smile she knows he can see straight through. She hopes he's drugged up enough he doesn't notice.

“You should have told me about Ben. He seems great.”

His eyes scan her, as if she’s speaking some sort of nonsense language only dogs know.

“Liv,” his fingers release from hers. Again. “I’m not -”

Not doing this, not apologizing, not defending himself. She doesn't want to hear any of it right now.

“I know we're not friends anymore and you barely tolerate me,” she can't look at him when she says that, but she can tell it hurts him. “But I'm still glad he called me. You didn't have to do this yourself.”

“Liv,” he pleads, “I'm not _with_ Ben. I'm not dating or with, well, anyone really.”

That shouldn’t relieve her, but the admission suddenly finds new oxygen, new energy. It feels like it’s glowing against her. But what her heart doesn’t seem to understand is that he doesn’t feel the same way.

If he had, well, he would have done something about it.

He should be happy. She should be pushing him to date Ben. Ben - who has a ring on his finger.

“He introduced himself as your partner.”

His eye roll to the ceiling is the first gesture from him that makes her believe he’s going to be okay. Small victories.

“Business partner,” he edges out, then plays with the thin blanket over his lap. “We started the foundation together. I invited you to the celebration party. You had a training course. A training course Carisi and Rollins didn’t have to attend, by the way.”

So this is the _thing_ she must have done. She hadn't realized it was so important to him for her to be there. He of all people shouldn't be calling anyone else a workaholic.

“Rafa,” she breathes, “I didn't know it was that was such a big thing for me to go.”

“Of course I wanted you to be there Liv,” he groans, “You're my best friend.”

Could have fooled her.

“Forgive me for finding that a stretch when you barely talk to me anymore.”

He gives her a pointed look, one that says, you know why. She has no idea why.

“I'm not asking you to defend your schedule. I know better than anyone what it's like.” His tone is calm, no edge or laced anger to it. Somehow that hurts most of all. “I just stopped hoping you'd show up.”

He hasn't resigned himself to it. He's accepted it. It isn't even fucking true.

If she'd known she needed to make time she would have made the time.

“That isn't fair,” is all she can manage to say.

“Maybe not,” he admits, “but, I tried so many times to figure out how to get you to go to that dinner. To catch up, to make it like old times. It never happened. Just like the countless other times I tried to invite you to dinner. I'm stubborn but eventually I'll take the hint.”

She wasn't aware she'd been giving him hints. She'd thought - well, she'd stupidly thought one day when she stopped trying to save the world. When he stopped trying to change it, that they'd be something else. Something more. Now she's lost it.

Almost lost him entirely. But he was never hers to lose.

“What… hint?” she asks, heart thrumming against her ribcage. The admission of love threatening to burst from her chest. A little hope is a dangerous thing, isn’t it?

“That I needed to stop hoping one day we'd figure out how to take the next step, because women like you don't love men like me. Well, you certainly don't love me. At least, not the way I always wanted.”

It was what she'd stupidly hoped. It was what she'd been hoping he'd ask her. For years really. Her heart pitter-patters, threatening to overtake her brain. Her brain reminds her he didn’t actually say that. Just that she didn’t.

Her heart latches onto that before her brain can stop her.

“You're in love… with me?”

Her, who won't go to dinner, dodges his calls, yells at him when he gets stabbed. Her, who hasn't been paying attention enough to know if he was or wasn't dating some nice psychiatrist.

Her, who'd assumed he was mad at her for trying to get him to stay. When he was really trying to move on from a chance he never took.

Never allowed her to take.

He drops the disdain, eyes searching hers. And something switches behind them.

“You didn't know?” he asks, dumbfounded.

Suspected, dreamed, hoped. Felt maybe. Knew? Not without confirmation.

“How the fuck would I know?” she laughs bitterly.

He loves her? Has loved her through all of this hell where he was literally almost got himself killed and she's supposed to just know?

He couldn't be bothered to tell her because she ruined it by not going to some stupid party? He doesn't think she feels the same way because of a party?

Because of Ed and Brian. The yelling, the never asking him herself. The opportunities she didn't take herself because she was afraid of the answer. Afraid she wasn't good enough.

Afraid they'd ruin their careers and break up their team. And he'd gone and done it anyway. Done it without even taking his shot.

“Listen - it doesn't matter,” he builds up a mask he has no business having anymore. “I've been dealing with it for this long and I don't expect anything to -”

“Shut up,” she interrupts. She can't hear him say things like it not mattering. Especially when it matters a great deal.

To both of them.

He's just convinced she's already confirmed she isn't interested and she can't figure out when that happened. For him it's more than an assumption.

“Excuse me?” his demeanor tells her that if he wasn't in the hospital he'd be storming out. She's surprised he isn't telling her to leave.

The dinners. Those stupid dinners he always waited until the last minute to invite her to.

“You were asking me out?”

She doesn't clarify. He knows.

“I was trying to let you know I was interested without pressuring you to be interested.” He sighs. Trying in vain to turn his head toward a wall. “I was letting you know I'd wait, checking in periodically. Apparently I'd assumed.”

That may the stupidest thing she's ever heard outside of an interrogation. At the very least the stupidest thing she's ever heard from him.

“Rafa-”

“See, now you're pitying me for being so dumb.”

She frowns. He isn't wrong. “I am.”

“So we can go back to whatever we we're talking about before?” he attempts to change the subject.

She’d rather not, so she reminds him what they were talking about, “Tyler or Grant?”

“Okay then,” he huffs, “So how's Noah.”

He really, truly thinks she doesn’t feel the same way? That she knew he was asking and just - let him go? Without at least letting him down?

“You can ask him yourself when Lucy comes by,” she retorts, reminding herself that she still needs to let Lucy know he’s okay. “Though you'll also have to explain how you got yourself in this situation.”

“Can't I just tell him I fell?”

“On a knife?”

“Liv-” he sighs, “I'm sorry.”

“I know.”

Is he apologizing for being so stupid? Yes. For leaving, for not telling her how he felt, for running into Walter Grant’s knife and trying to act like his principles were worth more than his life.

For not knowing she felt the same way.

He doesn't know that. He thinks there's no hope, when there's all the hope in the world.

“Rafa,” she sighs, taking his hand again. She should have noticed the lack of band before. He flinches slightly.

The admission swirls, breathes, takes wing. Then it climbs out of her chest.

“I wasn't holding out on you,” she searches his eyes, willing him to read everything else she isn’t saying. “I was waiting for you to ask.”

He studies her, watches her, then finally his hand clutches hers, his eyes even brighten. “You're saying you'd say yes?”

Of fucking course she’d say yes. She would have said yes even when it would have ruined their careers. She always thought that was why he didn’t ask.

She decides to attempt a metaphor.

“I'm saying you can't fly if you don't leap.”

“A prosecutor doesn't ask questions he doesn't know the answer to.”

The real reason he tried to ask without asking. It’s still one of the dumber things she’s ever heard.

“You're not a prosecutor any more,” she parries, even though he’s still a lawyer. Even though the point is he’s afraid of it going the wrong way. “And you know the answer.”

He smiles. Grins even. He has his answer, so he asks the question.

“Liv - when I'm back to fighting strength,” he runs his thumb against her knuckles, “Can I take you on a date with a nice steak dinner?”

“Yes,” and she’d do it now. “though I’d settle for hospital Jell-O.”

“You shouldn't have to.”

“But I would,” She smiles by way of assurance. Then she adjusts her hand to run her thumb against his, and finally decides to take her chance. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

He smirks, “I think I've been medically cleared for that.”

“No I mean -”

“You have my consent to kiss me whenever you want.”

“Whenever I want huh?”

They're teasing each other, but she knows what he means. He's telling her he's game for whatever. Within reason. She leans forward, presses her lips against his. He's slightly sweaty. His lips are dry. He isn't pulling her against him.

It's still divine. Because of course it is.

The laugh bubbles up over her. And she vibrates against his lips before he pulls back.

“What?” He asks, searching her eyes

She shakes her head, unable to stop the smile. “I just never thought our first kiss would be In a hospital bed.”

That seems to floor him. She’s not sure why. “You've thought about our first kiss?”

“Yes,” she narrows her eyes. “Many, many times.”

The grin is back and he pulls her hand up to his lips. “Me too.”

She’d tell him to stop being such a flirt but she loves it. Waiting for this date will be interminable, but she’ll work with him. Negotiate.

* * *

Carisi must be too preoccupied with all of the information he’s received when he enters. That’s her only explanation for why he doesn’t immediately make some ridiculous comment about them holding hands.

Ben is hot on his heels and definitely notices. He even raises an eyebrow that Rafa only moderately rolls his eyes at.

As Sonny regales them with every detail he’s gleaned about the investigation, she releases Rafa’s hand. Then takes the opportunity to text Lucy and let her know he’s fine.

Then she texts Fin.

Neither seem surprised to know this. A foregone conclusion if anything. Maybe they had a little more faith in her best friend’s stubbornness than she did.

Apparently they sent the knife back to TARU and were already able to lift fingerprints from it. Manny had a good description of the guy but he wasn’t in CODIS.

Their hunch is still good that Grant has something to do with it. They just can’t prove it yet.

Carisi excuses himself to let Rollins know what happened. Then Ben excuses himself to talk to Manny. They’re left alone.

She figures out a way to lie down next to him. Its cramped and honestly a little stinky. But she can feel his heartbeat and if she lays her head against his shoulder she knows he can’t go anywhere.

Feeling his heartbeat is much different than hearing that monitor.

He leans over her head and breathes in the scent of her hair. Then sighs. Somehow that gives her the permission to let it out. She leans into his bicep and finally cries.

He doesn’t have his handkerchief to offer her. He can’t really run his hand against her back, but he kisses the top of her head, and he’s there. That’s all she ever wanted.

Him.

She wipes her eyes against her sleeve and turns around to face him. He searches her eyes again.

“You really thought I could date someone without you knowing?” he asks.

That may have been the stupidest thing she ever said.

“I was in a bad head space,” she excuses, running her fingers along his arm, “My best friend almost died.”

“It wasn't that bad,” he tries, even though they both know he’s stretching the truth a little. A lot. “Even Ben admits I'll live.”

“Still,” she laughs, “You're an idiot. But I love you anyway.”

“Really?” he asks, his dumbfounded expression is both adorable and devastating.

It’s that expression that makes her realize her heart knew what her brain kept trying to destroy. She’s never been more grateful her brain was wrong. She’s never been more happy to stop thinking about it.

She squints, mirroring his answer from earlier. “You didn't know?”

“Until about twenty minutes ago I thought you felt sorry for me.”

“No. Never.”

She was jealous and sad and freaking out because her best friend may have been dying. But now he isn’t. Now he’s alive and going to be fine.

She finally took her chance and it worked out for the best. The admission finally stopped rattling against her chest. It’s finally free to fly.

* * *

 Lucy texts her arrival a short time later. She preps Noah while they’re visiting with each other, tells him Uncle Rafa isn’t sick. It will just take him a little bit to get back to normal.

She doesn’t know when Lucy and Rafa got so close. Maybe she’s just a kind soul. Maybe she’s one of #BarbasBabes. Lord help her. She’ll ask her about it later. (It’s possible she’s the one besotted.)

When she exits the room and immediately hugs Ben she realizes she’s missed a whole lot because she couldn’t face facts. She’s glad to be back in reality.

She attempts to hold Noah’s hand as they walk in but he wends away from her as soon as he sees Rafa. He gets as close to him as he can, hands gripping the edge of the bed.

“Lucy said you got hurted. I tried to bring cookies but you're not s'posed to have sweets,” Lucy must’ve told him that one. Of course they bonded over snacks. “So I drew you a picture of all the cookies you can have when you're not in trouble.”

He takes a hand off the bed to reach into his backpack. He pulls out, sure enough, a picture he must’ve been working on before they got here. Chocolate chip. Rafa’s favorite.

“I'm not in trouble Noah,” Rafa answers, beaming, “but thank you for the cookies.”

Noah’s not having that. Probably because she fibbed a little by way of an explanation. “Momma said you got a time-out for not following directions.”

He meets her eyes over her son’s curly head, then shakes his head because attempting to explain is more complicated than it’s worth. “Something like that,” he answers.

“I brought a book if you can still read.”

She sighs. He always did love Uncle Rafa’s stories.

“Yeah,” he looks down, realizing his current situation makes reading to him a bit complex. “Liv, can you help him up here?”

“Momma please!” he turns to her, eyes pleading. He really shouldn't be lying in Rafa’s bed, his _hospital_ bed, she corrects. There's all sorts of lines and fluids, things he could detach with him being 5 and all. But Noah is insistent. Rafa can't help himself.

“You’ll have to sit very still, sweet boy. Your Uncle Rafa is in a lot of pain.”

“Okay,” he nods as she helps him up. He immediately turns around and wraps his arms around Rafa’s neck. “I missed you a whole lot.”

“I missed you too mi amigo.” Rafa sighs, his free arm rubbing his back.

“It's okay though. You were helping people.”

She hadn’t told him that. He just knows Rafa is always helping people. She’s touched because it’s true.

Rafa looks like he’s going to cry. She’s glad she isn’t the only one.

Noah pulls out his book and leans against Rafa’s arm as he starts reading to him. He’s enchanted. So is she.

She falls back against the far wall. Her arms are over her chest as she tries not to cry for what seems like the hundredth time this afternoon.

Ben walks in and notes the scene in front of them. Then he leans beside her.

“You know, for the longest time, I didn't like you,” he states, self-important smirk over his face. She knew it but it doesn't feel great to get the confirmation.

She raises an eyebrow, curls her lip at him.

“Excuse me?” she answers, unable and unwilling to disguise her disgust.

He just laughs, “I couldn't understand how you'd possibly be as wonderful as he claimed if you didn’t love him back. I'm quite relieved to be wrong.”

Oh, well, that would be a good reason to not like her, wouldn't it?

“I thought you were his new…” she falters, thinking of how Rafa is the only one who's been a moron, “romantic partner.”

Ben releases a guttural sound from the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “That would explain your chilly reception. My husband will enjoy this one.”

So he is married, just not to her best friend. That shouldn't relieve her either.

“Rafa really told you he was in love with me?”

“No.” He considers, “He actually tried to tell me the opposite, but he should know better-”

“You being a trained psychiatrist and all?”

“I’m also not legally blind.”

So they both were that obvious. She wasn’t ever wrong about her hopes. She just made an incorrect calculation that he would take a leap.

“I drive him crazy,” she counters, remembering what his mother had said at some point.

“Yes,” Ben agrees. Great. “But you're good for him. You're good for each other.”

She finds she’s going to like Dr. Friedman after all. He disliked her for what was otherwise a good reason. And he didn’t really dislike her that much anyway.

He’s a good friend. One that Rafa will need. She’s happy she met him. She’s happy he did the right thing.

She’s happy she finally did the difficult thing.

“Since you were so nice to call me,” she offers, “I’ll let you give him the good news.”

He’s unimpressed. “I know the special prosecutor indicted Reston Tyler this morning. That’s why Rafael was in such a good mood and wasn’t thinking about how dumb he was being.”

Thank God for Manny, she thinks. Thank God for Ben, she thinks.

She still wouldn’t change him for the world. She just hopes he’ll be more careful next time, because she isn’t talking about the DA and his conspiracies. Rafa was right about the bigger case, too. Rafa is always right.

About the law anyway.

“McCoy found evidence to charge Grant as well,” she answers, attempting to be nonchalant. “He referred it to the feds. They’re planning to charge him for violation of the Mann Act later this week.”

Ben seems pleased, yet confused. “I’m supposed to know what that is?”

She laughs. She wouldn’t know it if she wasn’t in her line of work either.

“No, but he’ll love it.”

It’s a gesture, a hope. It’s an attempt to repair the relationship she’s never had with him.

The relationship she’s determined to have with Rafa going forward. Because sometimes repairing what’s broken makes it more beautiful than it ever was before.

Our cracks, our scars, our stupidities - show us our own resiliency. They mean we can survive. Sometimes, the beauty is in the broken.

Or, rather, understanding that everything can be, and will be, broken. Everything will change, so might as well work with what we have.

At least, the broken system worked on a technicality this time. This mess means she can get her best friend back. And, since he’s not her work partner any longer, she can finally turn him into something more - her actual partner.

She’ll just have to get him to agree on Jell-O before steak.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Mann Act, also known as the White Slave Traffic Act, involves transporting a woman across state lines for the purpose of paying them for sex or “any other immoral purpose.” It’s usually used to prosecute for transporting a minor across state lines to engage in sexual activity.
> 
> Also, i did not plan to use “Being Alive” for the title. It just sort of happened.
> 
> Comments as always are appreciated! :)


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